On the Beach at Night Alone
by royalpinkdogs
Summary: Being inspired by Jennifer Lynn Weston's chronicles of "Jack to the Future", this is another explanation of why Jack is the reason for everything.


_As an admirer of Jennifer Lynn Weston's chronicles of Jack Sparrow and his multiple rebirths in the Fountain of Youth, I felt a need to add to the legend. _

_Jack is the reason for everything. Just as Captain James T. Kirk (a.k.a William Shatner) claims to have changed the world, so has Jack, during his several-century existence. _

_Although I would love to call Jack my own, he belongs to Disney. But I'm really happy they are willing to share him with the world. _

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August, 1838

Long Island, New York

On a balmy, breezy August evening, on the north shore of Long Island, a young man, clad in rough workers clothing, and sporting a full beard, slowly ambled along the water's edge, avoiding the larger rocks. His head was down and he seemed lost in thought. Occasionally he would stop and gaze across the water of Huntington Bay, and then look around himself before once again, shuffling forward.

A dark haired man seated comfortably on some rocks higher up on the shoreline monitored his progress. As still as a rock himself, the man noticed everything about the walker, as was his life-long custom. Close to his perch, the sandy beach grew narrow, and caused the walker to come closer to the occupied rock. The seated man raised his hand in greeting and received a nod in return, which was seemingly the only communication that would occur. But abruptly, the walker stopped and called to the man on the rock, "Sorry, but do you have the time?"

"Ay, just heard th' bells in town ring 8 o' the clock"

"Thank you, friend," and he lowered his head, as though to walk on. But abruptly he looked up and asked, "Was that a British accent, sir?"

"Ay. It might've been once. Bin many a year since I set foot on fair Albion, though."

" Please forgive me sir, but I notice language and the speech of people, and have been today just hearing about a ship arriving from England."

"There's nothing unusual 'bout thet, son. Bin ships comin' ta this land fer a long time."

"Yes, but this one is different. It's a steamship. Called the SS _Great Western_. Made the crossing from Bristol to New York in sixteen days."

"Sixteen days? Best crossin'I ever made was 25 days, 'n thet was far south o' here with the trade winds at me back, 'n a definite need fer speed. How'd they do it?"

"The _SS Great Western _is a steamship. The fellow who told me about it had been in New York City when it arrived in April, and said it made a huge cloud of smoke as it came into the harbor. It works like one on the Hudson River, with a coal fire that makes steam, and the steam drives a paddlewheel that's off the sides of the ship."

" Aye, heard tell 'bout them steamships. Ah hear th' load o' coal is enough t' scuttle a ship, let alone cargo 'n crew, even fer short trips on th' river."

"Well, fellow said this one also carries sails, and both are used when at sea."

"When did ya say it docked? April? Aye, well ther' may a' bin some westerlies then but none worth the tellin', I'd venture. That were indeed a fast trip."

The walking man settled down on a rock, and silence fell upon the two men, as they both gazed upon the waters of the Huntington Bay.

The dark-haired man quietly muttered, "This vast similitude interlocks all."

The younger man turned quickly, eyes wide open, "What was that?"

"Wot? Ye mean 'This vast similitude interlocks all.' ? Just somethin' I've thought 'bout th' ocean 'n th' world—thet we're all connected like."

"Oooh—I like that. Sir, please forgive me, but you've something of the poet about you, in the little bit I've heard. I write a pamphlet, a paper and I like to use words…in unusual ways, I've been told—and I like that phrase."

"Do ye now? Have ye written much? "

"Yes, a bit. I like to write, I hear music in the words."

The dark haired man lowered his head, and his heavy, black curly mane covered his face. When he lifted his face back to the waning daylight, a sideways smile could be seen. "D'ye hear music in words? Tell me some of how that works."

"I don't rightly know, but it's there, I can hear sounds when I read certain passages. By the way, I'm Walt."

"Pleased to meet ye, Walt. Name's Jack. So, ye hears music in words, eh?"

"Well, I hear a rhythm, a motion in words, not so much music. When I read or speak I feel a cadence to the sentences. Don't you?"

"Aye, 'n thet's why I'm grinnin'. I knew young fool once who thought himself a poet. Said much the same thing to me. And he ended up writing some fine things."

"Every night and every morn

Some to misery are born

Every morn and every night

Some are born to sweet delight"

"Ah, that's lovely. Who said that?"

"Young fella name of William Blake. Met him years ago in London."

They fell again into companionable silence, with a long pause and quiet appreciation of the beauty of a small sloop sailing by…then…

"Ye know, this ocean, even this wee bit of it we see here, we all come from it. A newly born babe 's comin' from a salty pool o' water whut wuz in his mam's womb, yer tears are salty…it holds us all, all souls, all nations, all identities that've existed or may exist….we're all a part o' her. "

"Sir, I don't know who you are, but you are most assuredly a poet at heart."

The one claiming the name Jack leaned back and smiled again, "Son, Ah bin most places in this world wot are called places, and some that ain't. Ah've seen some wondrous and terrible sights, 'n ah kin tell ye thet all men are the same. We all want a warm fire, a belly full o' food 'n a purty face ta greet us at th' door. That, my friend, is th' definition o' happiness."

"I repeat sir, you are a poet, and perhaps even a bit of a philosopher."

"Call me wot ye will, ah'm happiest when ah'm on th' sea. Nothin' like it. At th' helm o' your ship, sails full bellied 'n spray in yer face…all distances of place however wide…th' sea forever spans 'n holds them."

Silence once more, and the first star of evening overhead. The two men sat in companionable quiet, even though they'd only met minutes earlier, each thinking of the things he loved and understood.

At last, it was dark. The one called Jack turned his head to the sky, and muttered, "As ah watch th' bright stars shining, ah think o' th' universe n' th' future."

The younger man, Walt, chuckled quietly, before saying, "Sir, you've given me more than enough to write about—if you don't mind? May I use the things you've said? I'm always searching for ways to express myself, and your gift with words has blessed me tonight."

"Lad, if ah've bin any sort o'help to ye, ah'm pleased. Wot say ye t' a visit ta a tavern? Do ye' know o' enny in these parts? "

"Why yes, sir! Just in the town—Captain Blackbird has a fine tavern. You might enjoy meeting him, sir, being a sailing gent yourself."

" T'will be a pleasure, son. A pleasure…..Wot did ye say wuz yer name, agin'? "

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The _SS GREAT WESTERN _offered a steamship service for Atlantic Ocean crossing from Bristol, England to New York from the spring of 1838 until 1846. One hundred and twenty six passengers traveled in relative comfort at the high speed of 8 knots on the 235-foot long ship. With speculation and the building of a second steamship, the company soon went broke. The ship was converted to a mail packet to the West Indies and finally a troop transit during the Crimean War , 1855-1856. It was scrapped in 1856.

Walt Whitman was born in Huntington, Long Island, New York. He taught school in Hempstead, Long Island, and when he found no joy there, went back to Huntington, New York to found his own newspaper, the Long Islander. Whitman served as publisher, editor, pressman, and distributor and even provided home delivery. After ten months, he sold the publication to E. O. Crowell, whose first issue appeared on July 12, 1839. No copies of the paper exist.

Walt Whitman wrote "Leaves of Grass", a collection of his poems with his first publication in 1855, but subsequent revisions throughout the remainder of his life. His works have been used by many, but this author has always found great insight, feeling and delight in one particular poem, and she has every certainty that Jack Sparrow was the source of this inspiration:

_ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT ALONE_

_**by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)**_

_On the beach at night alone, _

_As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song, _

_As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future. _

_A vast similitude interlocks all, _

_All distances of place however wide, _

_All distances of time, _

_All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, _

_All nations, all identities that have existed or may exist, _

_All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future, _

_This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann'd, _

_And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them._


End file.
